Anna's War
by Fizzylizard
Summary: Grindelwald's war. Hitler's war. Sometimes the lines are blurred...Work In Progress
1. Liverpool: May 3rd, 1941

**Disclaimer: **The Harry Potter universe and everything that is canonically in it belongs exclusively to J. K. Rowling. I have no plans to make any money from this work and hope that my writing of it is not disrespectful in any way. I also use and will acknowledge my use of a short section from Peter Pan, by J. M. Barrie. Again, I make no claims on it and mean no disrespect.

**Author's Notes: **Thanks to everyone who helped me with the research for this fic. I'm not sure who most of you are, so I can't thank you by name, but you should know that I appreciate your efforts on my behalf. Special thanks must go to M. J. Innes and the great E. M. Pink, who have both supplied me with a great deal of valuable information and support. My beta-reader Nymphaea is doing a fantastic job, and deserves a special mention all to herself – which I, being grateful, will now give her.

Any feedback or thoughts you may have concerning this fic are very much appreciated.

Chapter One 

It was dark, and the floor was cold. The shelter smelt of people, soggy cardboard and (rather improbably) cold tea. The siren was still wailing. They listened to the bombs whistle as they fell, and there was just enough light to see Mrs Fraser flinching at the rumble they made as they hit. She never made a sound, but she would clutch at the big wooden chest in the corner and press her lips together until they went white. Every so often, one would land near enough to make the walls tremble. They all flinched when that happened. Poor Mrs Fraser flinched every time, then busied herself with little things while she was waiting for the next one.

Mrs Fraser's little boy whimpered and burrowed further against her side. Anna Bates would have found this much easier if her mother had let her do the same. She was, however, eleven years old – the oldest child here. Three straight nights in the cramped shelter were more than enough for her, but, as she reminded herself for the fourth time that night, they were hard on everyone. She could at least try to be brave. Since she wasn't at all certain she could really ignore the bombs currently dropping out of the sky, she decided to pretend that she could.

Peter Fraser appeared from somewhere behind his mother, revealing a pale face (just a little tear-streaked, though he would never admit it) and a tousled crop of brown curls. He blinked at her for a moment, then scrambled over his mother's legs and crouched in front of her like a dog. She studied him for a moment and considered what she was going to do with him now that he was here. He needed a distraction even more than she did.

Pale and thin, like everyone else she knew was rapidly becoming, Peter was dressed in striped pyjamas that were far too large for him, with the cord from his father's old dressing gown knotted tightly around his middle to hold his trousers up. He was only six, small for his age, and it appeared that his clothes were intended for a considerably bigger and older boy. He looked ridiculous. He blinked at her owlishly again. "What're we doin', Anna?"

"We're waiting for the raid to stop. It won't be long." She wrapped her arms around her knees and tried to make herself more comfortable.

"Do we have t' stay here?" He sneezed and scrubbed at his nose with an oversized sleeve. "It's all dusty, an' I don't like it." The dust was now smeared over most of his face. "I want t' go home."

She had to admit that he might have had a point. His home was only just over the back fence – hardly further away than hers was – and it would have been nice to be there instead of here. It would have been nice to be just about anywhere but here. "We can't go home yet, Peter." She closed her eyes, tried to ignore the sirens. They sounded like they were screaming. She didn't like the sirens. "Soon."

"Can we go home, Mummy, please?" Peter had given up on believing her for the moment. He fidgeted and squirmed. "I don't like it here."

Mrs Fraser had her eyes shut tight. Her jaw tightened at the sound of yet another roar, and she swallowed nervously as glass audibly shattered somewhere nearby. She shook her head. "No Peter. Be patient. We'll be home soon, I promise."

"But I don't like it…" He began to sniffle again. "I want t' go home." He sniffed back an enormous gob of unspeakable green slime with a loud snort.

Anna began to feel a little bit sorry for him. He was frightened, after all, and hadn't yet learnt that an air raid frightened everyone. "Here Peter. Sit by me." She fished a handkerchief from the pocket of her jumper and gave it to him. When he returned it after blowing his nose, the hanky was snotty and crumpled. She decided not to put it back in her pocket just yet. She had to find a distraction.

"Do we have a light, Mum?" Anna suddenly recalled putting a book down here. It wasn't much, and Peter probably wouldn't like it nearly as much as one of his own, but it might keep him occupied for a little while. "I've found something for us to do."

Mary Bates opened the big wooden chest and felt around inside it to see what was there. She pulled out a plain candle, and then a tin cup – a gift from Anna's father on his last shore leave, it had the name of his ship stamped on its rim in square, black letters at least an inch high. "We've got a candle. Move to the corner, both of you. Anna, you're to sit in front of it and block the light from the door, understand?"

Anna understood. The door was only a black curtain pulled over the entrance. They couldn't risk any light getting past that. A blackout was still a blackout even from the inside of a bomb shelter in the back garden. Until the bombers went away, that was how it would have to be. She moved along the bench and shepherded Peter into the corner. "I'll tell you a story until the aeroplanes go away. How does that sound?"

Peter nodded. "What kind of a story?"

"How about Peter Pan? Do you know that one?" Her old copy of Peter Pan, much thumbed and much loved as it was, had been slipped beneath the pillow of one of the bunks.

Peter shook his head. He'd never been to London to see the Christmas pantomime, and he didn't own the book. She'd never seen London either, except as blurry photographs in the newspapers, but had felt a brief stab of sadness when she'd heard that last Christmas, there had been no Christmas panto at all. The bombs had been falling all over Merseyside, but the thought that there was no Christmas play for the children in London gave her no way to leave the shelter even in her mind. If there was no panto in Kensington Gardens, the bombs were falling there too. "Will I like it?"

Anna smiled slightly. "I think so. It has pirates in it, and mermaids, and Red Indians, and a little bit of magic as well. What do you think - do you want to hear it?"

Peter's eyes had been getting bigger and rounder with every word she said. By the time she had finished the sentence, he was hanging on tenterhooks to hear the real thing. "Read it! Read it! Anna, please!"

"All right. If you sit still, I'll read it." She balanced the candle in the tin mug and lit it. Being very careful to turn her back to the door, she opened the book, balanced it on her knees and (in her best story-telling voice, which she knew wasn't very good) began to read.

"All children, except one, grow up. They soon know that they will grow up, and the way Wendy knew was this. One day when she was two years old she was playing in a garden, and she plucked a flower and ran with it to her mother. I suppose she must have looked rather delightful, for Mrs Darling put her hand to her heart and cried, 'Oh, why can't you remain like this for ever!' This was all that passed between them on the subject, but henceforth Wendy knew that she must grow up. You always know after you are two. Two is the beginning of the end…"

She read slowly – the light was poor, and it flickered across the page at inconvenient times – and by the time Peter Pan had taught Wendy, John and Michael how to fly without banging their heads on the nursery ceiling, Peter Fraser was leaning his head on her shoulder, about a minute away from being fast asleep.

Her mother smiled at her. "Well done, love." She cocked her head to the side, listening. "It won't be long now. Pinch the candle out for me, there's a good girl."

Anna blew the candle out, trying not to dislodge Peter's head from her shoulder. Mrs Fraser wouldn't be very pleased if her son cracked his head open on the floor of the shelter. She had more than enough on her mind.

Mrs Fraser had fallen asleep. She still looked pinched and white (truth be told, she looked ill), but at least the bombs didn't frighten her any more. They were still falling, and every so often there would be the sound of shattering glass, groaning wood splintering, tiles and masonry falling from the roofs of the houses, rattling on chicken coops and garden sheds. Once or twice, a great echoing boom as a bomb missed the docks and landed in the harbour.

They sat in the darkness and waited. Anna began to think that perhaps they shouldn't have brought her home from Cheshire after all. Over their heads, the bombs were still falling.


	2. Owl Feathers

**Disclaimer: **Nothing that belongs in the Potterverse actually belongs to me. It's all the property of one J. K. Rowling. I have no intention of getting rich from this story, would not be getting rich from this story even if that was my intent, and I mean Ms. Rowling no disrespect.

**Author's Notes:** Once again, I thank everyone who has helped me put this together – it's basically because of your help with research, your encouragement and your patience as sounding boards and (in some cases) nitpickers that this story exists. You know who you are, so enjoy the gratitude.

She could never tell exactly when letters from her father would arrive. He certainly wrote to them regularly – she could tell that from the dates he printed so neatly in the top right hand corner of every page – but they seemed to arrive in a series of great clumps, three or four letters arriving on the doorstep in a single morning and then several weeks passing without even a note. It wasn't really his fault. He could write all the letters in the world if he wanted to, but it seemed that they couldn't actually be posted until they docked in Nova Scotia or whatever the place was called. Even then, by the time the letters actually arrived, they were covered in line after line of thick black ink. The censors seemed to really enjoy themselves with her father's letters – every few lines, there would be a word or a phrase that was neatly blacked out. He didn't seem able to finish a letter without provoking at least seven quite distinct blots of black scattered over the page.

This time, there were a few letters from her father (her mother would be thrilled – she worried about him, running the U-boats like this)…and there was another one, which was very, very different.

Anna had never seen a letter like this. It was written on…was it really paper? Thick, stiff and oddly rough beneath her fingers, the envelope had a thick blob of red wax to seal the flap down, and it seemed to be lacking any form of stamp. Compared to the other letters – thin, flimsy, stained with salt and water and the occasional inky fingerprint – it was almost too heavy, too fine to ever be real. The address, too…that couldn't possibly be real either. No one would seriously write an address like that and expect it to get anywhere without even a stamp to pay its way.

_Miss A. E Bates_

_The Little Attic Bedroom with the Washstand in the Corner and the Drawing of a Pony on the Wall _

_3 Johnson St, Liverpool_

_Lancashire_

She read the address one last time, trying to figure out anyone who might have known about the drawing, or better yet anyone who could have found or bought (or even made) paper like this. There didn't seem to be anyone obvious. Anna tucked the strange new letter into her pocket and went back inside, completely failing to notice the long, tawny feather that had been left lying on the front path beside it.

"Mum, there are some letters from Dad here. I'll leave them on the table, all right?" Anna knew that there were certain parts of her father's mail that her mother kept private. She'd never managed to find out exactly what it was that she wasn't supposed to hear, but after a year and a half of patchy, ink-smudged letters written on paper that tended to rip down the middle if she handled it roughly, it was probably a good idea to leave her mother alone while she read them. "I'll be upstairs if you want me."

"While you're up there, tidy your bedroom." Mary dried a handful of cutlery and put it aside with a clatter. "It's a mess."

Cleaning up her bedroom was not exactly what Anna thought the summer holidays were for. "I'm on holidays, Mum."

"Holidays or not, you still need to live in it. You'll never find anything if you leave your room in that sort of state." She reached up calmly and put one of the plates away. The fact that holidays were generally considered to be meant for fun didn't seem to bother her in the slightest. "It won't take you long."

Anna gave up on arguing and headed up the stairs. It had suddenly occurred to her that her bedroom (messy or otherwise) was the perfect place to have a proper look at the letter in her pocket.

Anna sat on the edge of her bed with the strange letter in her hands. She'd tidied the covers less than five minutes ago, but the fact that they were getting all rumpled again seemed rather unimportant. It wasn't every day that she got a letter personally addressed to her. Her cousins didn't write letters – since they lived a few streets away, there was no need – and as for Uncle Thomas, who lived in Singapore…he only ever addressed his letters to her parents. In fact, she couldn't really remember the last time she'd had mail that was just for her.

Very carefully – she wanted to keep the wax seal – Anna opened the envelope and read the first line of the letter inside it. When she realised what the letter actually said, she dropped it as though the ink had burnt her fingers.

_Dear Miss Bates,_

_I am pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Your list of required supplies and equipment is enclosed, the items on which are to be purchased from Vertig Alley. However, circumstances dictate that the school train will not be used this year. Instead you are to be in Calderstones Parkon the first of September, arriving no later than eleven o'clock in the morning. You will receive further instructions there._

_Regards,_

_Professor A. Dumbledore_

_Deputy Headmaster, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

Anna finished reading the letter for a second time, then sat on the edge of her bed, shivering violently. She'd only really read it again to make sure that she understood what some of the longer words meant, and now that she'd done that, she didn't particularly want to touch it any more.

She couldn't be a witch. Witches weren't real. They weren't real, so there couldn't be a school for them, so this letter had to be some kind of a joke. That made sense. It was just a very complicated, very realistic-looking joke which happened to involve a letter from a man who didn't exist. She admitted that some very strange things had happened around her over the years – like the time Jane Fettle had tried to copy off her English test and her pen had suddenly gone bananas and spurted at least a pint of ink all over the paper so she couldn't hand it in. Or the time she'd lost her temper and said something horrible to Sarah Micklethwaite, then wished she could take it back…and as soon as she'd thought that, the teacher and Sarah and everyone else seemed to forget that she'd opened her mouth at all. Or that time when she was still in Cheshire and Colin Jackson had been teasing her about being just a little bit homesick and the back of his shorts had split right down the middle, so his mother shouted at him for being so careless when he knew they couldn't get another pair. It was a bit strange, true…but none of it was magic. Not real magic, the kind that people did in stories. Anyway, she wasn't a witch.

Was she?

The more she thought about it, the more it started to make sense. There were so many coincidences…but what if some of them weren't? That thing with Jane probably wasn't – for one thing, pens couldn't hold that much ink. They weren't big enough for anything like that

She pulled the booklist from the envelope nervously. If this turned out to be real...actually truly _real…_she didn't know what she would do. Hoping that the list had nothing too strange (or worse, too horrible) on it, Anna began to read.

_**Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry**_

_**Uniform**_

_First Year students will require:_

_Three sets of plain work robes (black)_

_One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear_

_One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)_

_One winter cloak (black, preferably with silver fastenings)_

_**Set Books**_

_All students should have a copy of each of the following_

The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) _by Miranda Goshawk _

A History of Magic _by Bathilda Bagshot_

Magical Theory _by Adalbert Waffling_

A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration _by Emeric Switch_

One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi _by Phyllida Spore_

Magical Drafts and Potions _by Arsenius Jigger_

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them _by Newt Scamander_

The Dark Forces: A Guide To Self-Protection _by Quentin Trimble_

_**Other Equipment**_

_1 wand_

_1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)_

_1 set of glass or crystal phials_

_1 telescope_

_1 set brass scales_

_**Students may also bring an owl or a cat or a toad if they wish**_

_**Parents are reminded at this time that first year students are not permitted to have broomsticks during the school year.**_

Anna had to read the list twice, just to be sure that her mind wasn't playing tricks on her. She wasn't even sure what some of the things on this list were, never mind where she was supposed to buy them. She'd certainly never seen any of the books for sale anywhere. Admittedly, there wasn't a huge amount of anything for sale lately, but she was sure that she would have noticed books with the sort of titles that these ones seemed to have. It occurred to her that this might be a good moment to share the news.

"Mum?" She was halfway down the stairs when she raised the subject, with the letter from the school (she couldn't quite bring herself to think of it as 'Hogwarts' just yet) still clutched tightly in her hand.

"Yes love? What is it?" Her mother put down the letter she had obviously just finished reading. She had a slight smile on her face, but at the same time Anna couldn't help noticing that her eyes were just a little bit too bright.

"Am I a witch?" She'd been trying to think of a better way to put that for at least ten minutes. So far, everything else she had managed to come up with had sounded stupid.

"Don't be silly Anna. You know witches aren't real."

Anna jumped off the last step and sat down at the table. "It's just that…well, I got this other letter…" She pulled the 'other letter' from behind her back and handed it over, waiting for her mother to read it.

The funny thing was, up until that point, Anna hadn't even known that humans could make that kind of noise.


	3. Alice

**Disclaimer: **Locations, people and events from the Harry Potter universe are the exclusive property of J. K. Rowling. Real locations such as Calderstones Park are in the care of the city of Liverpool, and I mention them with the greatest respect.

**Author's Notes: **Firstly, thank you to all those who have reviewed this story so far. I genuinely appreciate your feedback. Secondly, my beta-reader Nymphaea is doing a fantastic job, and I need to acknowledge that. Bravo everyone. You're doing well.

It took Anna a moment or two to realize that her mother couldn't see them. "Look Mum, over there. By the statues." She pointed to the largest stone. "Do you see them?"

"What are you pointing at?" Mary Bates blinked. Calderstones Park was famous for its statues, but they'd seen them many times. There didn't seem to be anything particularly odd about them this morning. Unless she had overlooked something, there was certainly nothing that might justify pointing. "I can't see anything."

"You can't see the people?" Anna couldn't understand how anyone could possibly miss them. There must have been more than four hundred people there, packed in tightly around the biggest statue. It was like a beehive, seething with movement and noise. More to the point, some of the crowd looked very strange indeed. It was quite common for people to look a little shabby – clothing was rationed, after all, and most of her own clothes had been mended more than once – but surely it wasn't usual for a grown man to wander around in public in what a appeared from here to be a dressing gown?

"There are no people, Anna. We're in the wrong place." Mary's original thought had been that the letter was a joke. The mysterious map that had appeared on the kitchen table and the shopping trip that had followed had (in a way) convinced her that it was not. However, if her daughter was seeing people who plainly didn't exist…the whole situation was more than a little worrying.

There was an almighty bang from somewhere in the crowd, and a stream of violently pink sparks shot about ten feet into the air. Surprisingly, no one but Anna appeared to have noticed this. Everyone else she could see appeared to be going about their business, engrossed in conversation or the daily newspapers with hardly a glance for the impromptu fireworks taking place around them. They didn't even seem to notice the noise, which had changed from the original BANG to a high-pitched, rather sinister wheeeeee…like a Catherine wheel.

"We really are in the right place. I can see them, I promise. But…" Anna wondered if she ought to finish the sentence that was in her mind. She didn't want to sound weak. If she didn't sound absolutely certain of herself, then she wouldn't be allowed to go…and it had been hard enough convincing her mother of this much. As mad as this whole situation was, she couldn't walk out on it now. "I don't really want to go over there by myself. Just trust me."

What was the thing her father said all the time? Something in Latin…she wasn't very good with languages. Something about 'seizing the moment' or 'seizing the day' – something like that, anyway. It was a lot harder to remember when Dad wasn't there to prompt her. She squared her shoulders – which wasn't nearly as impressive as it would have been if someone with a bit more bulk had done it – and headed towards the stones. Not at all sure why she was doing it, Mary Bates followed.

The man she had thought was wearing a dressing gown wasn't actually wearing a dressing gown at all. They were robes. Black robes, in fact, over a striped flannel pyjama shirt, a bright red, slightly moth-eaten cummerbund and a pair of thoroughly ordinary brown trousers. He had a battered trilby perched precariously on his head. Anna didn't have time to wonder why he was wearing such an odd collection of things, since he immediately whipped out a small jotting pad and a quill pen that appeared to have been stored somewhere up his right sleeve. "Can I have your name please, Miss?" He was clearly a real Scouser – his accent was much thicker than her own.

"Um…Anna Bates." She couldn't help noticing that he had a wand tucked into the top of his cummerbund. This became very obvious as he scribbled something on the jotting pad with a flourish.

"And the woman behind you, Miss Bates, will she be accompanying you into the marshalling area?" Anna turned around and felt a quick stab of guilt. She hadn't even thought to check if her mother had been following. As it was now, her mother looked absolutely stunned. It suddenly occurred to Anna that her mother probably hadn't seen any of this until she'd been standing right in the middle of it.

"Yes, that's my Mum." She tried to look as apologetic as she could while still answering the questions. "She's allowed to come in, isn't she?"

"Yes, Miss. As long as you allow me to search you," he nodded politely at Mrs Bates, who seemed to have only the vaguest notion of what was going on, "then you're free to enter as you like." With that, he pulled the wand from his cummerbund and waved it vaguely in her direction. It let out a few green sparks and made a noise like a bicycle bell. "Excellent. You're clear." He turned back to Anna. "Are you starting first year this year?"

"Um…yes. I think so." With him standing there like this, larger than life, it was hard to string together a coherent thought.

"Well, are you eleven?" He raised his eyebrows. "If you are, then you go over to that group over on the far left." He pointed over to huddle of people who looked to be smaller (or at least younger) than anyone else around them. "You wait there until you're told to move. Now then…you'll be asked who marked your name off, so you tell the gentleman who asks you that it was Thaddeus Munt, Department of Magical Transportation," he puffed out his chest proudly (an act which made him look even more like a stringy sort of pigeon), "and he'll let you go with the rest of them." He stopped and peered at her. "You understand all that?"

"Yes, Mr Munt."

"Wonderful." He tipped his hat politely and gestured them through.

Mrs Bates looked mildly uncomfortable. "You'd best be getting on, then." She made no attempts to move past Mr Munt (who, feigning ignorance of the conversation, was nevertheless leaning over to hear it). "I'll see you in the holidays. Your father's due for some leave then…we'll go out to the country or something. That'll be nice."

Anna couldn't speak. There was a lump in her throat the size of a doorknob. "Mum…" This was much harder now than it had seemed when she had imagined the scene the first time around. "Mum, don't be like that, please…it won't change anything. I promise it won't. I'll write and everything…" She gave up on words and flung her arms tightly around her mother's neck.

"Away with you." Her mother was hugging her back. For a moment, Anna had been afraid that she wouldn't, but now she was, and the mere fact that she was made it easier to bear. "I'll see you at the end of term. Now run, or you'll be late."

Anna usually did as she was told. Today was no exception.

Some kind of strange creature appeared to be talking to her. It was about a head smaller than she was, had odd socks on (one black, one green), the rubber hood from a mackintosh dangling from one hand and a blue and red scarf flapping from what she assumed must be its neck. It spoke again, and she suddenly realised that what she had thought was a small and sociable monster was actually a girl.

"You look a bit lost. Are you all right?"

"Um…yes. I'm fine." Anna tried to pull herself together. She wasn't sure that she actually was fine – for one thing, Mr Munt's instructions weren't quite as clear as he would have liked to believe. It had also occurred to her that she was completely alone. However, as bad as things were looking, they weren't bad enough to blurt out to someone she knew nothing about. "Thanks for asking, but really, I'm fine."

The girl cocked her head to one side, then shrugged. "If you say so." She held out her hand. "By the way, I'm Alice. Alice Jenkin."

Much to her own surprise, Anna shook the hand. "Anna Bates." She had another, closer look at this new acquaintance. "Erm…Alice?"

"Yes?"

She tried to put it delicately, but in the end, there was only one way to ask the question. "What exactly are you wearing?"

Alice glanced down at herself quizzically. "This is how Muggles dress, isn't it?"

What on earth was a 'Muggle'? Was it some kind of…no. It couldn't possibly be that. That was just stupid. Anna raised her eyebrows helplessly, hoping that Alice would realize she didn't understand.

"Oh, sorry. Don't you know what a Muggle is?" Alice seemed genuinely surprised by this. "Muggles are people who can't do magic. It's a bit of a silly word, really…but this is how they dress." She gestured downwards towards the lopsided scarf, the dangling hood and the odd socks.

Anna's mind flicked through all the people she knew. As far as she was aware, none of them had ever done magic. They were Muggles, then. Unfortunately for Alice Jenkin's grand theory of Muggle grooming practices, Anna had never seen any of her neighbours or relatives dressed in the sort of way Alice seemed to think was common. "Um…no. Not really."

"Drat it. I was going so well." Alice shrugged, then seized Anna by the elbow and tugged her along. For someone so much smaller than she was, Alice was either very strong or simply incapable of turning down a challenge. Either way, she was dragging Anna behind her. "Never mind. We'll help each other, eh?"

"Tell me about your family." They were still charging along. Every so often, there would be a mumbled swear word (or at least, the sort of thing Anna assumed counted as one in this world) and Alice would call a hurried apology from somewhere over her shoulder. Despite having to pick a path through the crowd to avoid stepping on people (or worse, overly sensitive cats), they didn't seem to be slowing down at all. "I don't think I've ever actually met a Muggle before."

"You don't really want to know about my family." Anna tried to steer the conversation away from this particular topic. She loved her parents – she assumed that most people did, in their own way – but here and now, in a conversation with someone she'd known for all of ten minutes…it wasn't the place. She wouldn't have known what to say if she'd tried it. This was one of the few things she really wished she could change about herself – it would have been nice, just for once, to have a conversation with a new acquaintance without getting horribly tongue-tied while doing it. She'd like to know what that felt like, just once. "They're not very interesting."

"Oh, come on. Think about it. There's got to be something interesting you can tell me about them."

"I don't have any brothers or sisters, my Mum's…Mum, and my Dad's somewhere in the North Sea." Maybe if she blurted it all out as quickly as she could, it'd become easier to say. "Nothing interesting there."

"Why is your Dad away?"

"I'll tell you some other time…maybe." Don't mention the war. That was the rule at home – one of those peculiar unspoken rules that had never been strictly defined and yet was impossible to break. Never, ever mention the war. People got upset when she did that.

Anna seized the opportunity to get the attention focussed somewhere else. She'd never been particularly comfortable in the limelight. "Tell me about yours."

"Well…" Alice took a deep breath – more for dramatic effect than for anything else. "My parents make glass vials and things to keep potions in – stirring rods and beakers and the like. Now that's boring." As an afterthought, she added, "I've got two brothers as well, but you're welcome to kidnap Timothy if you like."

"Who's Timothy?"

"My younger brother. He's a beastly little brute sometimes. Richard's all right, though – he's over there somewhere, with the fourth-year boys." She pointed off to the right, where there was a group of older boys shoving at each other and laughing. "You can't see him, but he's in there somewhere."

Anna suddenly realized where Alice probably lived. St Helens had a softer accent than Liverpool did – the boys who stood on the corner throwing empty chip wrappers at people usually called it 'plazzy' and laughed at the people who had it – and the town was supposedly full of glass blowers. Magic aside, Alice's family probably went unnoticed. There was something reassuring in that thought. Perhaps magic wasn't quite so strange after all.

"By the way, what did you think of Vertig Alley?" Alice smiled over her shoulder. It was difficult to tell whether she was amused, or teasing, or just being kind. Truth be told, Anna wasn't exactly sure what lay behind that smile. "It probably seemed a bit strange for you, eh?"

"It was…" Anna fumbled for the right words. Plainly, the daily dose of social awkwardness had chosen this precise moment to kick in. "It was…" If she was going to be completely honest (and she wasn't sure if that was going to happen, though of course she'd be pleased if it did) there were no words for what Vertig Alley had been. Even her mother had been left speechless, staring at the busy crowds around them and noticing that, as well as the many strange things they didn't know the use for, wizarding Britain still seemed to have ready access to things like fruit, or good-quality clothes, or meat, or even eggs that didn't come out of a box looking almost exactly like custard powder. Things that in the city they lived in – the grey city scarred by a war that didn't seem to have touched this strange little street - were nearly impossible to get. "I've never seen anywhere like it in my life."

Alice grinned again. A warm grin this time, easy to read. "I wish we could have gone to London instead. If you're this impressed by Vertig Alley, you'll nearly faint when you see what Diagon's like. It's nearly twice the size." She stroked her chin thoughtfully. "I wonder why we couldn't go…"

Once again, Anna had to remind herself not to mention the war.


	4. Getting Things Sorted

**Disclaimer: **Objects, people and locations from the Harry Potter universe remain the property of Joanne Rowling. I am not using her creations for my own gain, and I mean her no disrespect.

**Author's Notes: **My sincerest apologies for the long delay, everyone – I'll do my best to stop it from happening again.Also, I need to say a huge thank you to the lovely Crosschick for her help with the Sorting Hat – she saw me struggling with it, took pity on my efforts and supplied a great deal of the song used here. As always, feedback is much appreciated.

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There was really no point trying to keep track of what was happening. Anna had given up on trying to understand any of it when she had touched the mouldering old tyre that had been thrust at her, been grabbed somewhere behind her navel and pitched forward (in a rather spectacular fashion) to land on a station platform. At some point in the half-second before she realized that it was a station platform, Alice had crashed onto her back, knocking the wind right out of her and adding another graze to the growing collection spread over her knuckles.

There had been neat rows of trunks – black or brown or greenish leather, scratched and battered and torn – and a little man, brown and wrinkled like a walnut with legs, shouting for the 'firs' years' in a thick Dales accent. A boy – all oversized hands and gigantic feet and a head of wiry black hair – had nearly knocked the little man off his feet, but he barely paused to yell "Move along Hagrid, there's a good lad," at the massive boy, who was blushing furiously as he ran. "Firs' years to me! Over 'ere! Come on then!"

A mad scramble through the crowd, which was even bigger than the one in Calderstones Park had been. Dodging through strangers, mumbling "Excuse me…pardon me," as she trod on someone's toes or accidentally knocked them into someone else's path; jumping over cages full of disgruntled owls, trying not to squash a roaming toad or step on a cat's tail. She'd barely even reached the little man when he glanced around quickly and (apparently deciding that he'd collected everyone he was supposed to have with him) led them away. They straggled after him in a vague sort of disorganised crocodile.

There had been the boats, of course. A little fleet of boats, gliding smoothly over the surface of the lake with barely a ripple and no splashing at all. No one seemed to be doing anything constructive to guide them; the boats simply knew the right course. Anna leant over the side and watched the water streaming past. A reflection was growing on the water – she turned her head to look at the real thing and felt her mouth fall open in astonishment.

It was a Castle. Her old teacher would have fainted if she had written it out in the same way she was thinking about it, but the capital letters (grammatically incorrect as they were) fell into place almost naturally. It was a castle – no, a Castle; a real, live Castle – covered in lights. Anna had never seen so many lights in one place before. There must have been hundreds…maybe even thousands of them, shining against the silk-dark water. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. "Wow…"

Beside her, Alice turned and smiled gently. "Richard told me it was lovely."

"Did he tell you it was…?" Anna gestured silently. There were no words. The English language had no words to describe this. It was possible that no language existed with the right words for something like this.

"No." Alice shook her head. "He didn't."

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And that was how they had gotten to here. Anna tried not to fidget, but it was hard to stay quiet and still while the man was looking over them with his bright eyes.

He was a most peculiar man. He was very tall and thin, with reddish hair and an enormously long auburn beard, which he had tucked into his belt for safekeeping. His robes (or at least, Anna assumed they must be robes) were blue like his eyes were blue, and he had a gold fob watch hanging from his left hip pocket. Eventually, he spoke. "Welcome to Hogwarts."

Someone coughed nervously. The man smiled slightly and adjusted his glasses so that they sat more comfortably on his long, crooked nose. "My name is Professor Dumbledore. The Sorting will begin shortly, but before I take you into the Great Hall I would like to talk with you about what your life at the school will be like."

Anna tried to pay attention. She didn't particularly want any nasty surprises.

"The four Hogwarts houses are Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Slytherin and Ravenclaw. Each house has a long and proud history at this school, and many fine traditions to uphold. When you are Sorted into a house, the students in your house will become like your family – you attend classes with them, share a dormitory with them and spend free time in your house common room." He smiled again. "If you would wait here for a moment longer…"

He disappeared into the hall. Anna turned to Alice and muttered, "He's strange." She'd recognised his name, of course – it had been on her school letter – but never in a million years would she have expected him to look or behave like this. "I wonder what he's like as a teacher?"

"Well, my Dad says he'll make Headmaster soon. He's meant to be a really powerful wizard, is Dumbledore. He teaches Transfiguration."

"Sorry? He teaches what?" Anna had only the vaguest idea of what Transfiguration might be, and she had a sneaking suspicion that her vague idea was wrong. She didn't want to make a fool of herself before term had even started. There would be more than enough time for that just in her classes.

A stocky boy with a thatch of bright red hair and at least a million freckles leant over her shoulder. "Transfiguration. Turning things into other things." He chuckled. "Fancy not knowing that!"

Alice bristled. Coming from such a tiny girl, it was rather funny. "You might have been born a wizard, Gideon Prewett, but you've got all the sense of a stunned troll. Not everyone grew up like you did."

"Oh." Gideon Prewett held out his hand. His ears were just beginning to turn the slightest bit pink. "I didn't mean to offend you…can I claim pax?"

"What've you done now, Goat?" For a moment, Anna wondered if she was seeing double. The same red hair, the same brown eyes, the same multitude of freckles over his nose and cheeks – it had all reappeared. "Are you bothering someone again?" The newest arrival to the conversation was perhaps a fraction taller than his brother, and might possibly have had a few less freckles, but otherwise the two were close to identical.

"Oh…no, we're fine." She wondered for a moment what could possibly have convinced his parents to name one of their twin sons 'Gideon', and then to turn that into 'Goat'. If he hadn't been born a wizard, he would have been teased horribly before coming here. "Really, er…"

"Fabian."

Fabian? He would have been teased too, poor boy. What was it with wizards and ridiculous names? "Really Fabian, we're fine."

"Right then." Fabian smiled. He had quite a nice smile for a boy. "Good luck playing catch up."

If Fabian Prewett hadn't opened his big mouth, Anna probably would have kept the bare shreds of her confidence intact. Unfortunately, he didn't seem to know that. She took back all the nice thoughts she'd been having about him.

At that precise moment, the doors to the hall swung open, and Anna was left hoping for a quiet corner somewhere no one would notice her being sick.

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The first things she noticed were the tables. Four long tables with benches running along both sides, and students in black peering curiously at the straggling first-years. There were so many of them, all staring. Glancing around nervously, Anna realised that she probably wasn't the only one wishing that the floor would swallow her. Alice was as white as a sheet, and Gideon Prewett had his teeth clenched together so tightly that his whole jaw shook. She tried to ignore the rows of candles on the tables, tried to ignore the rows of people gawking at them. The ceiling was always a good place to look. She closed her eyes, tilted her face towards the ceiling, opened them…and gasped.

The ceiling was covered in stars. Not just a sprinkling either – there were dozens of them. Over in one corner, above a table hung with green and silver banners covered in snakes, there was even a moon.

She forgot that she was standing in the middle of a crowded hall. She forgot that, for the moment, she was supposed to be the centre of attention. "Alice, look!"

"You've noticed it, have you?" Alice smiled, though she was still pale. "It's bewitched to do that. Mum told me."

"It's like this all the time?"

"Of course. It even snows sometimes, at Christmas."

Anna shivered. The thought of snow dropping from the ceiling wasn't nearly as appealing as Alice seemed to think it would be. If it went down the back of her neck…

Alice grinned at the look on her face. "Not cold snow, silly girl. It's warm and dry. They only put the charm on to make it look good…I'll tell you later."

Dumbledore had entered the hall again, a squat three-legged stool tucked securely beneath his arm. He set it firmly in the middle of the floor, then (taking the greatest care) placed something on it. Anna wasn't exactly sure what this thing was supposed to be. At the moment, it was either a bundle of dirty washing or, just possibly, an immensely old and ragged wizard's hat. She didn't know if wizards really wore pointed hats, never having met a wizard who actually had one on him, but that was what it looked like.

Dumbledore stepped away from the stool and went over to the staff table, which was on a dais overlooking the rest of the Great Hall. An empty seat had been left for him alongside a small, rather frail looking wizard with thinning white hair. From his position at the very centre of the staff table and the elaborate carvings along the arms of his chair, Anna guessed that the delicate-looking old man was probably the Headmaster.

Suddenly, to her great astonishment, the faded old hat moved…shuffled…made a few muffled coughing sounds from a tear near the brim…shuffled around a bit more and began to sing at the top of its voice.

_"For many years I've spent my time,  
In choosing each student a spot,  
To treasure in their time spent here,  
To mark their historic dot_

_And whilst the job was once quite just,  
The founders would divide  
This tricky task, each year I must,  
See what your thoughts do hide_

_The four great houses, each unique,  
Are known for different traits,  
Which house will have the students who  
Face the bull or charge the gate?_

_Slytherin, with serpent guile  
Seeks persons of ambition,  
Whilst Hufflepuffs, kind badgers striped  
Are honest, free from suspicion,_

_Gryffindors with rampant lion  
Are brave and seek the prize;  
And Ravenclaws in eagle's nest  
Hold wisdom in their eyes._

_So while the founders lived, each year,  
Their own students they'd take,  
But now that they are dead and gone  
Their choices I must make_

_So don't be scared - just put me on,  
I'll look inside your heart,  
I'll tell you where you'll fit in best_

_To help you make your mark!"_

The entire hall broke into applause. Anna blinked stupidly. Had that hat…did she really hear a hat…could that hat actually sing? She shook her head. "Am I imagining things? I must be imagining things."

"Don't worry, you're not mad." Alice stopped and considered what she had just said. "At least, I don't think you're mad. If you've really lost it, everyone else must be raving too."

Now that she thought about it, the theory made sense. After all, she'd only heard the hat singing. She wasn't the one giving it a standing ovation for doing so.

Dumbledore stood up again and pulled an enormously long scroll of parchment from thin air. He bowed in the direction of the line of first years, many of whom now looked slightly ill. "When I call your name, please sit on the stool with the Sorting Hat on your head. After you have been officially Sorted, proceed to the correct table. If we are all ready, the Sorting will begin." He glanced down at the parchment and took an appropriately deep and dramatic breath.

"Abbott, Michael!"

Michael Abbot (who would have been a thoroughly unremarkable boy were it not for his unbelievably fair hair) stepped up to the stool and put the hat on his head. Nobody spoke.

"HUFFLEPUFF!" bellowed the hat.

The centre left table (which had yellow and black draped all over it, and a large and rather stubborn-looking badger in the very centre of the largest hanging) whooped and clapped madly as Michael jogged to a seat. A tall boy with a silver badge pinned to his chest shook him by the hand when he sat down.

More people came after that – Frances Ackerley, who went to Ravenclaw. Marcellus Adwicke, who wound up in Gryffindor (a table placed conspicuously at the opposite end of the hall to the table with the snakes). Caspar Andress, who seemed not at all surprised to find himself in Slytherin and sauntered over there with a small, rather satisfied smile. Callum Baddock, who was another Slytherin.

_Oh no…_ Anna suddenly realized how similar the name 'Baddock' was to 'Bates'._ Oh no…I'm next, aren't I? Near enough, anyway… _She wondered if she'd left it too late to find that quiet corner.

"Bates, Anna!"

It was definitely too late for that. She tried not to stumble as she approached the stool.

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The inside of the hat smelt like someone's dirty socks. It was too big for her and hung over her eyes, which did nothing to improve the smell. She sat in the darkness, surrounded by that musty smell, and waited for something to change.

"Oh, hello." The hat had a high-pitched, slightly muffled voice – almost exactly as though someone was speaking with a thick wad of cloth stuffed in their mouth.

'Hello' wasn't exactly what Anna was thinking. The word she was thinking of looked more like 'Help!'.

The hat chuckled quietly to itself. "There's no need to be frightened. Just let me have a poke around in your mind and I'll Sort you out."

This was not exactly what Anna really wanted to hear. She had half made up her mind to tell it to stop whatever it was doing when the hat started muttering absently to itself.

"Hmmm…well, you're no Gryffindor, I know that. You'd never be comfortable with their way of doing things – too sudden and unplanned for you. Brave as you are – and don't you think like that!" the hat snapped suddenly. "You're lying to yourself if you do. But sudden spurts of boldness don't suit you at all…so perhaps a Slytherin? They're always very careful to plan things out properly…wait, no, that can't be right either, can it? You've no ambition at all, child – it looks from here as though all you want to do is go home."

No! That wasn't right! What exactly was the hat looking at? She wanted to get off the stool – it wasn't very comfortable, and everyone was staring – but, now that she was here, she was going to make the best of it. What else was she supposed to do?

"All right, all right…keep your hair on. There's a brain in that head of yours, and it works in its own fashion, but I'd guess you're not really a Ravenclaw. There's not that love…a lot of them will learn just for the sake of learning, but you don't seem to have much of that in you. Which leaves us, I suppose, with I think might be the best one for you after all…HUFFLEPUFF!"

She tugged the hat away from her ears, placing it neatly on the stool for the next person. It was almost automatic – she didn't even look at what she was doing. Her attention was focussed on the table with the whacking great badger on the central hanging.

Strange, really…but the Sorting didn't seem nearly as bad after she had already done it.

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The line grew shorter and shorter. Through the 'C's, through the 'D's, through the lone 'E' and the 'F's…on it went until they reached 'J'.

"Jenkin, Alice!"

Alice honestly looked as though she were about to faint. Dead white and shaking just a little, she picked up the hat and placed it on her head with almost exaggerated care. Anna was amused to note that the hat was even bigger on Alice than it had been on herself – the brim was hanging right over her face, and (if you counted the shadows as well) all that be seen was the pointy bit at the end of her chin.

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

Anna let out the breath she hadn't known she was holding. If Alice Jenkin had ended up in a different house…she would have had to start all over again. It was lucky they were together, really – she was rather fond of Alice (though she couldn't have explained why) and it had been hard enough making friends the first time around. Assuming, of course, that a relationship that had lasted a grand total of seven hours to date actually counted as a friendship. Was there a time limit to mark the distinction between an acquaintance and a friend?

She was distracted from following this line of thought any further when Alice slid into the space beside her on the bench. "Morning!" Now that she wasn't standing in line any more, Alice had suddenly regained the spring in her step.

Anna wondered for a moment if she should point out how dark it was outside. Maybe Alice had suddenly and inexplicably gone blind. It seemed wildly improbable at best, but then again, she didn't yet know what was and was not possible in this strange wizarding world, where people like the Prewett boys could navigate with hardly a thought. They could probably have managed just fine even if they were blindfolded. "Um…Alice? It's dark outside – you know, night time?"

"It has to be morning somewhere. In Australia or India or somewhere like that, it's morning. It's tomorrow morning, too." Alice smiled whimsically to herself. "Isn't that funny?"

Anna wasn't really listening. She was still watching the complicated little manoeuvres surrounding the stool and the hat, where, one by one, the students were losing their shivers and being given a gentle shove in the general direction of their new…what was it Dumbledore had said? Oh, right – their new 'families'.

'Prewett, Fabian' went straight to Gryffindor, only to be joined by 'Prewett, Gideon' a moment later. The two boys slapped each other's shoulders and had a brief tussle over who was going to sit where, but sorted themselves out in time to watch the last few students. Anna couldn't help feeling just a little bit glad that she didn't need to share a house with them – Gideon was nice enough, and though she didn't know about Fabian, he was probably much the same…but for the moment, their particular brand of good humour was a tad too much to handle.

Alice was fidgeting beside her. "I'm sure it didn't take this long when Richard was Sorted. We have to get around to the feast soon, or we'll all starve."

"There's a feast?" Food was always a good thing in Anna's mind. They didn't eat a great deal of anything at home. There wasn't a great deal of anything available to eat. The idea of a feast - an actual feast - was unbelievable. "What kind of a feast?"

"You'll see." Alice made a mysterious gesture down the length of their long table. Anna followed the line of her arm and mentally counted the number of plates. It would be school food, of course (which was never very good), but to feed this many people…she was having trouble imagining how much there would have to be. Alice smiled at the look on her face. "Just you wait and see."

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"Let the feast begin."

The old Headmaster – whose name, as Alice had informed her with a knowing air, was Professor Armando Procyon Dippet – had rather a weak voice, but at the moment Anna could not have cared less. The idea of this feast had been growing in the back of her mind ever since Alice had first mentioned it, and now she honestly didn't know how much longer she could wait. Her stomach rumbled loudly. She blushed, hoping no one had heard.

The food shimmered into place on the big plates in the centre of the table, and Anna nearly fainted at the sight of it all. Even in her wildest dreams – and she dreamt about food quite a lot lately – she wouldn't have imagined something on this scale. Where had it all come from? With the blockade and the rationing and the little books of paper tickets that would buy you a few ounces of meat or three eggs for the week…she hadn't known there was this much food in the whole of Britain. Maybe the wizarding world got their food from somewhere else?

"What are you waiting for?" Alice asked with a grin. She had already loaded up her own plate with far more than someone of her size should have been able to eat without exploding. "It's going cold!"

There were whole chickens on those plates, with great steaming piles of potatoes or pumpkin on the side. There were silver gravy boats, filled to the brim with real gravy – not just dripping, but real gravy. There were mountains of chops, and bowls of peas the size of hubcaps. There was even bacon, fried up with mushrooms and onions. Even fruit – even oranges! – could be found on a plate somewhere in this mess. She'd often wondered what an orange might taste like.

Considering the matter carefully, Anna decided, after great deliberation, to find out.

She didn't speak again for at least half an hour.


	5. Letters Written With White Cats

**Disclaimer: **The Harry Potter world and characters belong to J.K. Rowling, and I gain nothing from borrowing them.

**Author's Notes: **If anybody has nitpicks or feedback for me, I'd greatly appreciate it. Also, my beta Nymphaea is being very patient with me and doing a fabulous job. Apologies for the long wait, by the way. I've had exams and am trying to move out for the first time, and the process appears to be eating my life.

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Even after two weeks, Anna still wasn't used to the idea of a four-poster bed. It seemed too big somehow, too grand for her. She was a messy sleeper, always throwing the covers off at night and waking with cold feet in the morning, but this bed was too big for anyone to fall out of. If she hadn't had classes, she probably would have lain there for a while every morning and stared at the canopy above her, trying to get her head around the fact that all of this – the heavy yellow brocade hangings around her bed, the occasional crackle and fizz of magic in the Great Hall (which usually made her hair stand on end), the glorious food – was somehow still real. Truth be told, Anna was only just beginning to realise that she not only wasn't going to, but actually didn't need to wake up.

The food helped with that, of course. It wasn't quite the same as it had been at the feast, but there was still more than enough food to go around at breakfast. There were great teetering piles of toast with honey or marmalade or even real butter, and crumpets or muffins for those who wanted them. There were pans of mushrooms – not just the stalks, but whole mushrooms like restaurants sold – and grilled tomatoes. Plates of kippers (which she wouldn't touch; the eyes were glassy and just a little off-putting over breakfast) or fat sausages steaming juicily. There was porridge and cornflakes and fruit in bowls. Anna had taken to filching an apple after breakfast so she'd have something in her pocket later for morning tea. She still had no idea where all this food might have come from, but she wasn't going to turn down a nice apple if she could get one. Cox's orange pippins were her favourite.

Dinner and supper were even better, even if she couldn't get used to the taste of pumpkin juice. It was too…grainy, almost like pumpkin soup in a glass. The taste was fine – odd, but fine – but the texture…eurgh. Even with the strange juice, this still wasn't like any school food she'd ever seen or heard of, mostly because it was actually _good._ Anna had spent most of her free time for the last week and a half trying to come up with some way of sending a bit home to her mother.

Anna sat bolt upright in bed. Speaking of home…she'd promised to write, and she hadn't done it yet! Thank heavens it was a Sunday. No classes on Sunday…maybe if she were really, really quiet, she could nip up the stairs to the common room and do it now?

Very quietly, she felt around for her slippers. Very quietly, she tied the cord of her dressing gown. She reached into the small cupboard beside her bed and pulled out a quill, a roll of parchment and a smallbottle of black ink. She glanced around cautiously, checking that no one was stirring. It really was very early, and she didn't want to cause a disturbance.

Alice was fast asleep in the bed next to hers, curled up in a little ball with her mouth hanging slack and open. Cressida Smith – the next bed along, and just a little blunt and intimidating when she was awake – had her nose buried in a ragged stuffed bunny. The only way that one might have known Cressida as a distant cousin to one of the oldest wizarding families in Britain (as she'd made quite clear in their first History of Magic lesson) was if the bunny came to life again. It did that occasionally. Lucy McArthur – who came from Dumfries and was by far the most flexible person Anna had ever laid eyes on – had somehow turned herself right around without waking; she was sleeping quite contentedly with both feet propped up on her pillow and her head, covered in spectacularly long coppery hair, poking from the bottom of her bed. In the last bed, the one directly opposite her own, Philippa Hughes – small and pinkish and slightly rounder than was usual these days, Cardiffian docks girl, full of enormously convoluted stories about the Morgan family who lived over the fence - was spread out over the covers with her cat curled up on her stomach, watching the world go by with slanted green eyes. Anna wasn't at all sure that the mysterious Morgans actually existed – the oldest boy a year older than she was, his younger brother barely a year behind him and already looking to be two or three times his size when he grew properly…brothers and sisters and uncles and aunts and cousins and even a grandmother, all packed into each other's houses and squabbling like gannets – but Pippa was such a good storyteller that somehow everything became funny. Aside from Alice (who was, of course, still very dear to her) Pippa was probably the easiest person to talk to.

"Hello Gwyn," she whispered as he padded over. Pippa might have bought the white cat and paid for his basket at the end of her bed, but as soon as he arrived he had become common property…and he knew it. Gwyn was perfectly capable of providing for himself, largely by begging for scraps and affection from anyone and everyone in the room. He seemed to get it, too. He purred loudly as she scratched his ears. "Shhh," she told him. "I've got a letter to write. Come and help me."

She slipped the quill pen, the parchment and the bottle of ink into the pocket of her dressing gown, then headed up the stairs to the common room with the little white cat balanced in her arms.

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The common room was quite pretty, in its own way. It didn't have very many windows, and the windows it had weren't very big, but the walls were a warm sort of yellowish grey colour, and the yellow and brown armchairs by the fire were very well stuffed and cosy. There were comfortable rugs under her feet, the fire was nicely banked up and smouldering away with a screen in front of it…the common room might have been underground, and might even have felt like it was underground, but it was a welcoming room even so. Looking at the stone walls, looking at the smoke-darkened wooden beams that held the ceiling up, it was a little bit like a very large and well-appointed cellar with the barrels taken out. Anna amused herself for a moment with the thought that if badgers could live like humans, and have their setts like human homes…this was exactly the sort of room that a badger might like to live in.

Anna sat down in the squashiest armchair she could find and pulled over a little table with a chessboard set into the top. Gwyn jumped into her lap and settled himself extravagantly over her knees. She uncapped the inkbottle and dipped the quill into it.

"Right," she muttered to herself, making a private resolution not to smear the ink everywhere. She was still learning how to use a quill pen properly, and quite a lot of her schoolwork was blotchier than she would have liked it to be. This time, she was going to make it as neat as it was in her head.

She started to write.

_Dear Mum,_

_I'm sorry I haven't written before now, but we've been so busy that I haven't had a chance to write you a good long letter like I wanted. I think I've found a way to do it now, so I'll try to write once a week._

_School is good fun. I'm in a house called Hufflepuff, and I live with four other girls named Alice, Cressie, Pippa and Lucy. I think you met Alice at Calderstones Park, but the others are all new. They're nice to me, but I think I'm a little afraid of Cressie. We're very different, and I'm not sure what to say to her yet_

That was the understatement of the year, Anna thought wryly, stopping in the middle of a sentence and watching a spot of ink dribble onto the page. It wasn't that Cressida was unkind – she was very kind, and the other girls seemed to like her well enough – but she was so sure of herself, so certain of where she stood and how her world worked that nothing seemed to shock her. In two weeks, she had never once looked even the slightest bit surprised or uncertain. Anna couldn't even imagine being like that. She loaded the pen with ink again and kept going.

_so I think I might just see what happens. I'm sure we'll be friends soon. We have a ghost too! All the houses have ghosts here – ours is a monk who always seems to be happy. We call him Friar, but some of the older boys and girls call him the Fat Friar instead. He is, I suppose._

Her first meeting with the Fat Friar had been…memorable, to say the least. She'd been running a little late on her way to lunch after her first classes and he (fat, grey and tonsured, wearing a habit that probably would have been black if it hadn't been almost totally transparent) had drifted beside her in companionable silence for about a minute before she saw him. He'd tactfully ignored her squeak of surprise, nodded cheerfully at her shocked face and answered her stammering question 'can you talk?' with a broad smile, a wink and the first few words of the Nunc Dimittis.

_I have lots of classes to go to, and I'm learning all kinds of new things. We have Potions with Professor Slughorn, Transfiga (oops) Transfige (drat! Ignore that) Transfiguration (turning things into other things) with Professor Dumbledore, Herbology with Professor Wick, Charms with Professor Dobbins, Defence against the Dark Arts with Professor Merriwether and History of Magic with Professor Binns. My teachers seem nice, I think._

That was true…sort of. Professor Wick was very strict indeed, apparently because she'd already seen one poor first-year being eaten alive by a Venomous Tentacula and had no wish to repeat the experience. She also appeared to nurse a secret, burning desire to someday see a Whomping Willow installed on school grounds. Anna had a reasonable grasp on Herbology (it was basically gardening, and not too shocking if the plants didn't bite), but she hoped there would never be a Willow. Even if she didn't quite know what it was, it sounded as though it could take somebody's eye out.

Slughorn was…pleasant, but that was all she could say. He played favourites – he had one forth-year Slytherin in particular; a very handsome, very clever boy named Tom Riddle, whom he seemed to be grooming for greatness and whom everybody appeared to know wonderful things about. Personally, Anna had never met the lad. Slughorn was not unkind, and occasionally gave her a good word or a scrap of praise – Potions was like cooking, and she already knew she could do that – but his little court smacked of something vaguely unfair. Anna wasn't about to tell him that, of course…but she didn't like it at all.

Dumbledore was tricky. She liked him and respected him (almost everybody respected him), and he never seemed to shout…but she would have felt a lot more comfortable addressing him if she hadn't been so terrible at his subject. Changing something into something else, or changing something so that it looked like something else but was really still the same thing on the inside…it just didn't make sense. Dumbledore was patient and gentle with her, but it only served to make it worse. She didn't want to disappoint him – she couldn't think of anything worse than eventually exhausting his apparently limitless patience – but the theory made her head hurt and that was all there was to it.

As for Binns…he had a voice like a frog with bronchitis and kept calling her 'Miss Bardsley'! History should have been fairly straightforward, and Anna thought she might have been reasonably good at it if she could find some way of propping her eyelids up with sticks. He was considered ageless, but only because no one could remember or figure out how old he really was. Rumour had it, there was a flourishing betting pool on how much longer he had to live. Anna had never seen it, but (rumour again) the hot odds were on a month or two at most.

Other than those small things, Anna loved her lessons. She was slowly getting the hang of sitting on a broomstick (with a little help from Lucy, who was surprisingly good at such things)…but maybe it wasn't the best idea to tell her mother that she was spending several hours a week learning to sit comfortably when she was fifty feet from the ground.

No. On second thoughts, definitely not.

There were signs of life coming from the dormitories. Anna scribbled the end of her letter hurriedly, not stopping to blot the extra ink away. This was – this had to be – totally private. The others might laugh…

I_ have to go to breakfast now, so I'll send this to you on the way and write a longer letter soon. Give my love to Daddy when he comes home on leave._

_All my love,_

_Anna_

She sealed it as neatly as she could and – since Gwyn supposedly had a 'lucky lick' according to Pippa – she let the white cat lick the stamp. It couldn't hurt, anyway.

"Up you get, Gwyn. I need to move."

Gwyn did not approve of being shoved around, and he had no intention of being pushed off a nice comfortable lap in a dressing gown. If he was going to go anywhere, it would be on his own terms and no one else's. He stood up, stretched, gave her a pointed look and stepped daintily from her lap to the nearest newspaper, where he curled up again as though he had never been disturbed.

Under his tail, the front page trumpeted **GRINDELWALD STRIKES BACK! **in enormous, thick black letters. Anna had learnt not to notice the photographs moving – particularly in the sports pages, where all that lurching around on broomsticks made her feel faintly ill.

Hmph. Grindelwald. What a queer name.

Anna tucked the name in the back of her mind and resolved to ask Professor Binns when she saw him next.


End file.
